


Out of Sync

by OmoYasha



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Autistic Papyrus (Undertale), But hurt/comfort isn't till chapter 2, Childhood Trauma, Eating Disorders, Gen, I'm Sorry, Lack of Communication, Not Beta Read, Omorashi, Past Child Abuse, Skelebros' screwed up childhood, The Surface (Undertale), This is a piss fic about a skeleton, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wetting, Why Did I Write This?, at least I think this counts?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:55:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24890419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmoYasha/pseuds/OmoYasha
Summary: Anyone could tell you that Papyrus is a monster who likes structure.  He loves schedules, having his day carefully planned in advance.  The only issue is that... well.  He's not always completely forthcoming about the items on his agenda, even with his brother Sans.  Or.  *Especially* with Sans.  And sometimes, that poses problems.
Relationships: Papyrus & Sans (Undertale)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS AN OMORASHI FIC, AND IT'S ALSO KIND OF DARK. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK! If you came here from one of my other stories, turn back - this one is completely different!
> 
> Also, apologies in advance if anyone acts OOC - I did my best, but I am a fairly new author! I welcome comments and constructive criticism.

Papyrus paced, thoughts racing unwillingly.  
  
Sans was late.  
  
Sans was never late.  
  
Sans was very late, this time.

  
  
Though this might surprise some of their acquaintances, the skeleton brothers were creatures of habit. Papyrus thrived on routines and plans and schedules, latching on to each new tradition like it was a lifesaver thrown to someone drowning. Even Sans, in his own slapdash way, tended to stick to a kind of a… rough framework to his days. Now that they’d moved to the surface, there was a bit more variation than either was accustomed to. But they still had habits, still had structure.  
  
Every morning, Papyrus watched the sunrise. Sometimes he woke up to do this, although more often it was a matter of simply failing to sleep in the first place.  
  
Next, he went on a short run with Alphys, and returned home to cook breakfast. Occasionally, if it was a good day for Sans, the older skeleton would make breakfast instead. Papyrus would return home to find a bowl of oatmeal set out for him; texture just right, and eggs just beginning to dissolve into dinosaurs as his brother sat on the counter, sleepily sipping at a cup of coffee. More often, though, Papyrus roused Sans eagerly, and fixed his brother something to eat.  
  
Then Papyrus would begin cleaning the house, and Sans would leave – usually to go to one of his several jobs. Papyrus generally planned his day out carefully, beyond that point – making sure to work in time for important activities such as resetting puzzles, training with Undyne, and walking Frisk home from school.  
He always cooked dinner, as well. And if Sans was home, he never failed to read Papyrus a bedtime story.

  
  
By far the most important element of their routine, however – at least as far as Papyrus was concerned – was that Sans always, without fail, came home sometime between four and six for an afternoon nap before they ate dinner.  
  
One might wonder why such a non-event was so critical to the skeleton’s day. It was not something which he needed to prepare for, like a meal. Nor was it an activity which involved any significant interaction with Sans, like their bedtime stories.  
  
The fact of the matter was, not only was it reassuring to see Sans healthy and safe every evening, there were also some… things, which Papyrus found very difficult to tackle when he was home alone. Normally, this was not an issue.  
  
Back in Snowdin (and even after moving to the surface) he simply saved such tasks for the plentiful times when Sans was at the house as well to support him… whether intentionally, by responding to Papyrus’s demands for assistance or, with many tasks, simply providing unwitting security and moral support from his favorite napping spot on the couch.

  
Papyrus scrubbed more vigorously at the counter, telling himself firmly that he was definitely not worried by his brother’s tardiness – it was Sans, after all – and that everything he normally did while Sans napped could wait for his imminent arrival. Even though it was now ten minutes after six, and Papyrus really, _really_ needed to take care of one of those things.  
  
Since he had cleaned every surface of the house at least three times already, he set down the cleaning supplies in their place under the sink, and began working on spaghetti sauce for dinner. It was difficult to get himself in a proper cooking mood however, as his thoughts kept wandering to the uncomfortable fullness in his soul, unneeded magic threatening to leak out at the slightest wrong move.  
  
It was fine. There was no monster better at controlling their magic than the Great Papyrus! Even if Sans didn’t come back until tomorrow, he would be perfectly fine waiting. Not that he would need to, because surely his brother would be back any minute.

Papyrus shifted from side to side, excess energy causing an unpleasant sloshing sensation. The skeleton winced, and decided that today might be a good day to try out the “slicing” style that Miss Toriel seemed to like, rather than Undyne’s more enthusiastic technique. By the time he had scraped the vegetables into the pot, Papyrus was feeling intense irritation and regret towards every item of food and drink he had consumed in the last four days since he had relieved himself, and an irrational jealousy of Sans’s chronic magic deficiency.

Neither brother was precisely “typical” in their body’s use of magic. Sans, with his depression and his meager HP totals, struggled to maintain his level of passive magic. He could channel massive amounts of magical _output_ at times, but his small, fragile body was poorly equipped to hold onto magic: a monster’s “standby mode”.  
  
It was why he was always so tired, so passive – his SOUL needed to be prodded into every action… sometimes functioning low normal, and sometimes sending him nearly catatonic between bursts of activity.

Papyrus, on the other hand… Papyrus’s magic reserves were well developed and robust. Too robust. Sans had never mentioned the name of his disorder, but he was nearly a mirror image of his brother. Where Sans ate and slept almost constantly just to maintain enough magic, enough HoPe not to crumble, Papyrus struggled to even sleep in the first place. Eating magic-rich foods tended to make him ill – and when injury or circumstance brought his HP too low, he had to bring it back up with _recuperation_ , not magic.

For most monsters, practicing their magic was a fun and practical exercise, something to try out a few times a week. For Papyrus, it was a delightful hobby, but it was also a medical necessity.

It was fortunate that he enjoyed practicing attacks and bullet forms, because sometimes he had to train for hours just to keep his magic levels under control. He had to use magic.

He had to move. And even with all that constant energy, his soul still collected more energy than it could use.

All monsters had to expel unneeded magic from time to time. No matter how efficiently their body worked, there were always leftover dredges of energy – from food, the environment, anything – that could not be properly reabsorbed.

Corporeal, fleshy monsters simply urinated or defecated the excess matter a few times a day. Really, it wasn’t so different for skeletons… and Papyrus hated everything about it.

Not only did he find bodily functions unsanitary and disgusting in general, the physical act of relieving himself was deeply uncomfortable.

Papyrus despised activities which required nudity, and he was normally very good at avoiding them.

He did not remove clothes to dress for different occasions – all clothing was settled in careful layers, usually over his beloved battle body and tights.

He was fastidious, so his clothing rarely needed to be washed – and when it did, he simply wore it into the shower and washed himself thoroughly with clothes still on.

In addition to his anxiety about disrobing, Papyrus had never been fond of restrooms. Something about the sterile, plain tile, and the way sounds echoed around set him very much on edge.

There was no reason for it that Papyrus could recall. But standing on the cold, drafty tile never failed to give him a feeling of impending doom. Undressing while in the bathroom?

That was something to be avoided at all costs.

So Papyrus was meticulously careful about his food intake, though other monsters sometimes expressed concern. He practiced his attacks until he could barely speak, and staunchly resisted his brother’s attempts to lull him to sleep most nights.

Even so, the magic built up eventually, nudging at his soul with obnoxious regularity.

It was fine.

He had to relieve himself every other day on average with this regimen, but he could go longer if he forced himself.

He just always ensured that his schedule allowed him to do it securely at home, where he could leave the door ever so slightly ajar, and draw comfort knowing that his older brother – lazy or not – would be sure to wake up if anything awful caused Papyrus to shriek, or rattle his bones in distress.

The only issue was that he hadn’t ever _mentioned_ this practice to Sans.

In fact, Papyrus was reasonably certain that Sans thought he had outgrown that particular phobia – and the younger skeleton was more than happy to allow him to think that.

He had a suspicion, somehow, that Sans would not approve of the lengths he went to in order to keep his schedule.

It made him feel guilty, sometimes, but it was worth it to avoid the anxiety of extra trips to the bathroom. Until now, he had seldom run into any trouble; either with sticking to his strict routine, or with hiding it from Sans.

But when the clock above the bubbling spaghetti sauce read 7:03, Papyrus had to admit several things to himself.

First of all, despite what he had been telling himself, his need was urgent. He was very certain that if Sans stayed out all night, his body would not be able to hold it in until morning.

Secondly, he could no longer concentrate properly on tasks such as cooking. Always safety conscious, Papyrus twisted off the burner, squirming.

Oh, dust, this was embarrassing. If Sans walked in right at this moment, would he even be able to play it off casually? His soul’s refusal to be banished – and its slightly tacky texture – argued otherwise.

This was not good. Sans was far too perceptive not to force some incredibly awkward discussion on the subject if he came home and noticed something like that; and it was a discussion which Papyrus would much prefer to avoid indefinitely.

The skeleton gave up on the subtlety front, allowing his soul to come into being as it clearly wanted to, and wrapped a hand around it in a gentle squeeze. A tiny bit of magic stained his fingers orange, and he blushed at the sensation. It had been three and a half days since he had used the toilet, and he was acutely aware of just how long that really was.

When Sans mentioned one evening that he had to stay late at work the next day, Papyrus had been anxious – but no more so than he always was at the idea of being alone.

Normally, Papyrus would have doubled down on his self-imposed restrictions as soon as he knew of the impending disturbance. But the next morning, Sans had actually gotten up early, and made him oatmeal and hot cocoa, and he felt more than a little bit obliged to encourage his brother by actually eating it all.

(It was definitely not an apology breakfast for working late, because surely Sans knew that he was perfectly mature, and could handle such a thing like a reasonable adult monster. He told himself this firmly. Still, he was happy to see Sans show initiative like that.)

And then Sans left for his late day at work, and Papyrus couldn’t practice nearly as much as he’d have like, because it was a Saturday and the human was under his care for the day (not that he ever minded spending time with Frisk; it was just that friends who were not Undyne tended to get bored at spending all afternoon training and sparring).

And the next day, Sans had come home, but they’d gone to Miss Toriel’s house to ask her about something regarding her school, and she had invited the two of them in and fed them pie. Papyrus had only eaten a few bites of the admittedly delicious pie before quietly sneaking his slice onto Frisk’s plate, but even that was enough to jangle unpleasantly at his soul. And they had spent so long at the Dreemurr’s house that by the time they came home, Sans proclaimed it to be time for their bedtime story, and Papyrus had nodded off to sleep despite himself.

At the time, he’d felt confident.

And now, after all that, his brother was late.

Gingerly, Papyrus inched down the hallway to the innocuous, disgusting bathroom door. This was… somewhat of an emergency, loathe as he was to admit it.

Maybe it wasn’t as terrible as he remembered. He could just use the restroom now, and be back out before Sans even got home.

Before he could overthink things any further, he opened the door and stepped inside, ignoring its suddenly ominous creak. The tiles gleamed, and he could hear the echo of his boots with every footstep. He refused to admit it made him dizzy.

Squeezing his sockets tightly shut, the monster hooked his fingers on his waistband, ready to pull down his shorts. He paused, suppressing a shudder as he fidgeted, discomfort from his magic saturation warring with his anxiety. With a decisive move, he yanked them lower, and –

_-and he was naked, bones bare in a cold draft; rattling. Where was Sans?_  
_“Hold Still.” Said a voice like squealing gears, and he understood every word. He was afraid. Hands held him firmly to a bench, gripping vice-like to his bones – far too many hands, burning with magic. The prick of a needle. Where was Sans?_  
_The tile gleamed in the bluish light. **Where was Sans?!**_

Papyrus’s eye sockets flew open with a whimper, yanking his bottoms up and scrambling for the door. His skull pounded, and he was dimly aware of his eyelights flickering to life, and the sound of his bones clattering together. He lurched into the hallway, slamming the door shut, and focused on stilling his shaking.

 _Nope._ That was _exactly_ as terrible as he’d remembered, and it was _not_ happening.

A patch of damp fabric rubbed at his pelvis, and he clamped down on his magic, cheekbones flushing. He was not going to wet himself.

The skeleton got up and began pacing, desperate to work off some of his nervous energy. He wondered, not for the first time, why the wasted magic had to come from such an inconvenient, embarrassing part of the body. He had the vague memory of asking Sans about it once, long ago. Before they lived in Snowdin maybe – certainly before he was old enough to find such questions embarrassing. He hadn’t really understood the explanation at the time – something long and rambling and scientific, about monster evolution, and how skeletons were related to other types of monster. He’d asked a few questions, but just nodded along, in the end, not wanting to ask again.

Whatever the reason, he didn’t like it. Magic coming from between his hip bones – an area most monsters covered – just made the whole experience seem even more awkward and lewd.

He wrung his hands together, twisting at his gloves, and wished for his lazybones brother to hurry up and get back already. He didn’t know the time anymore. He stopped moving with a choked gasp as a brief stream of heat trickled from his ischium down his ulna. Quickly, Papyrus shoved one hand between his legs, the other clenched around his soul. Walking wasn’t helping anymore, and neither was sitting so close to the bathroom door.

Not moving his hands, he made his way, step by excruciating step, to his bedroom doorway. His soul pulsed unhappily at the jostling, and he pointedly avoided thinking about how his leggings were definitely damper at the top of the stairs than they had been at the bottom; or how, while there was still at least a slim chance he could hide this from Sans somehow, he was certainly going to need to remove his clothes to wash them. Instead, he focused on not allowing any more of his waste to escape as he sat on his knees on the bedroom floor, rocking slightly, shoulders hunched against the side of the familiar race car bed they’d brought up from the underground. (Papyrus had no idea how his brother had wrangled it, or the rest of their belongings, through Hotland to the barrier, but Sans hadn’t even asked what they were keeping – somehow knowing, before Papyrus did, that what the younger skeleton needed most was familiarity.)

He felt another burst of magic gush as liquid down his tights, staining his shorts now, and he whimpered into his scarf. He was aware, without being fully conscious of it, that his bones were rattling as loudly as a child calling for their parents, and maybe that’s really how he felt but –

The front door clicked shut.

“sup bro, i’m home… papyrus?”

Sans’s quiet voice was suddenly outside his bedroom door – he must have taken a shortcut, to get up across the house so fast.

“paps? bro? uhh, everything ok in there?”

Papyrus wanted to say no, and he wanted to tell Sans to go away, or to not come in, or to chastise him for his lateness, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t even speak. He froze his rocking in horror with another pained noise. Nononono….

The door swung open, just as his body finally rebelled, and he was wetting himself fully – no longer leaking, but magic filled liquid hissing out of him in an awful, rushing torrent. It was everywhere, on his clothing, the floor, the edge of his bedroom rug. His bones were hot and sticky, itching.

He gave a hiccup wine, shivering, not looking at the brother who had just seen him wet himself like a babybones, not wanting to see Sans’s disappointment or disgust.

Footsteps came closer, and he stared fixedly at his brother’s dirty white tennis shoes, not moving, face burning. He gave another squeaky hiccup.

“papyrus, are you ok?” the tone was not disappointment, but concern. There was a slight rustle of fabric as Sans leaned over, and he felt the reassuring scrape of bone-on-bone as the smaller skeleton laid a gentle hand on his skull.

“aw, paps… what happened, bro?” Papyrus blinked up at Sans’s worried face, tears gathering in his eye sockets unbidden. He started to reply, but the words stuck in his mouth, and instead he threw himself onto his brother, crying in great, howling sobs.

“SAAAANS!!!”


	2. Sans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this chapter is a long one! After looking it over, I decided to just leave the unrelated part in because I feel like it adds something, and also I kind of enjoy the puns, and Sans coming across creepy. Relevant info is that the original story revolved around a human social worker working with the monster community trying (somewhat unsuccessfully) to address some problems with the skelebros. If you don't want to read that section, though, you can just skip from the first line break to the second, and the chapter should still make sense.
> 
> Chapter warnings: talks about potty-training and childhood accidents, although not in a super explicit way. Also, Sans being a bit of a jerk to humans.

Sans stared down in surprise at the lanky set of bones clinging to him, but he didn't hesitate to start soothing, rubbing a hand up and down along his brother's shoulder blades and spine, making quiet shushing noises.

"shh, c'mon, s'ok bro..."

Papyrus hadn't gotten up yet, he was just clinging to Sans from a kneeling position, arms tight around his brother's ribcage, skull pressed against his chest.

Papyrus could be a touchy monster, even if the emotions he presented most were enthusiasm and joy. Every once in a while, the younger monster seemed to get overwhelmed by things around him, and go into a complete tailspin of negative emotions and problematic behavior. Papyrus would shout (well, Papyrus always shouted, but he'd shout _angrily_ , instead of happily), or he'd get clingy, or hide in his closet, or insist that Sans read Fluffy Bunny to him twenty-seven times in a row. Very rarely, Papyrus would just _stop talking_ entirely, and although that had mostly disappeared as he got older, it always meant they were in for a rough night.

Any of these things, Sans would have found somewhat concerning, but not completely unexpected, based on precedent. This was, after all, the monster who spent an entire hour and a half last weekend pacing in front of the pasta aisle at the supermarket because he found the decision between normal and whole wheat distressingly confusing. Sans had used some strong words with a rude store employee to convince them that calling security on his sweet, friendly brother would be a _mistake_. (In the end, they settled on getting both, and experimenting.) Those kind of things were just Papyrus being Papyrus.

Instead, he'd come home to Papyrus rattling like a frightened babybones. And when he'd ventured into his brother's room, he'd opened the door to find him curled up and crying on his bedroom floor, piss darkening his shorts, his fingertips – running down his legging clad thigh bones to drip into an enormous puddle beneath his legs and feet.

It had been a long, long, time since Sans had seen Papyrus have an accident like this. Years, at least. In fact, he was pretty sure that Papyrus hadn't had anything more than minor problems in that regard since a bit before he started training with Undyne.

Given his medical condition, combined with his excitability, things like this had been fairly common when Papyrus was small. Sans would be napping, or working at the kitchen table, and he'd feel a tug on his hoodie, or hear a tiny rattle and a whimpered "BROTHER"; and there would be Papyrus, pulling on his old striped sweater as if hoping it would somehow hide the heavy wetness of his shorts.

Or he would ask the little skeleton if he needed a potty break, and receive a stubborn "NO!"; only for someone to come fetch Sans moments later to come deal with the tiny monster now throwing a tantrum amid a pool of urine.

It had been a nightmare to deal with, at the time. Not only did the babybones have overactive magic generation (which had taken Sans an embarrassingly long time to figure out, sleep deprived and overwhelmed as he was back then), but he'd also had a terrible aversion to both bathrooms and doctor's offices.

Papyrus had never had the emotional vocabulary back then to explain his reactions, and Sans often got the impression that he himself didn't fully understand them himself.

Sans knew damn well why Papyrus got upset though – could think of a dozen reasons why his brother might be scared of cold, isolated, echoey rooms with tile floors, that smelled like too-strong chemical cleaners. Just another thing that their upbringing had stolen from them, which nobody else even remembered. And his brother was the sweetest kid in the underground, so Sans had patiently worked on it with him for _years_ , even though Papyrus was school aged – well past the age when accidents were common for his peers.

They'd started with a potty chair in the kitchen, inching it closer and closer to the bathroom as the days went by (because Sans might be lazy, he knew even then how Papyrus clung to consistency – and he was not about to see his brother using a toddler's potty chair years later as a grown adult). Eventually, Papyrus used the bathroom with Sans just holding his hand, and then with Sans keeping watch by the door. And then he'd hit his teenage years, and he'd finally, _blessedly_ insisted that Sans no longer needed to have anything to do with it. Yes, Sans had to give him reminders for a while, and yes, Papyrus would come rushing home every so often with his clothing damp and soiled, but he'd managed it on his own, and Sans had been proud of him, even if it would have seemed silly to someone who didn't know them.

That had been a long time ago, though. To see his brother have a full on accident had been a rarity for years. But here he was today, hiding in his room and soaking his pants with an unoccupied toilet just down the hall. It didn't add up right – Papyrus was far too fastidious to allow such a thing through laziness or disinterest, so there had to be some kind of story – and that was concerning.

But whatever the explanation, they sure weren't likely to discuss it here, with Sans awkwardly cuddling an oversized armful of wailing, pee-covered skeleton.

So they just sat there for a minute or two, Sans allowing a softer, gentler rattle in his own bones to help his brother calm, and wishing his own eye-glowing still worked in more than a half-assed way.

"kay bro, sorry to bug yah, but we both need a bath."

Papyrus shook his head halfheartedly, a particularly loud sob muffled in Sans's jacket. So it was _that_ kind of night, then. Groaning internally despite his sympathy, the smaller skeleton snorted.

"wasn't a yes or no question, paps. it's bath time, bro. you gonna walk? or are you gonna make _me_ carry _you_ for once?"

Papyrus shook his head again, but he didn't move from his limpet impersonation, and Sans suspected they’d hit the mental space where Papyrus would refuse everything he said on general principle. So he said, "mkay, c'mere then,"; and wedged an arm under the bigger skeleton’s knees, and clumsily hefted him up, using more than a little blue magic to lighten the load. It was still awkward as shit, of course, given that his bro was at least twice his size, but Sans could make it work long enough to take a few awkward steps to the door, and then shortcut them straight to the bath.

He knew better than to start them undressing before the bath was ready – it wasn't as if it was the first time they'd ever washed up together, and Sans wasn't blind – he knew how Papyrus felt about taking his clothes off. So instead, he set his brother on the toilet seat while he climbed on the counter to find an old tube of shower gel they could use as bubble bath. 

Only once the tub was filling, hot and soapy, did he take off his jacket and shoes to go in the wash pile, and begin coaxing Papyrus into helping him peel off the sodden outfit clinging to his bones. He cringed to see how filthy the red gloves had gotten, but gently convinced the other monster to remove them to go in the laundry. 

Papyrus hated being dirty, but he really, _really_ liked wearing gloves. At that point, he resigned himself to an evening of sad, irritable Papyrus. At least his brother's scarf was still clean – that was something, at least.

By the time he persuaded Papyrus to get in the bath, the normally chipper skeleton had quieted down to mostly whimpers or occasional sobs – though he was still rattling hard enough that Sans felt sure every monster in the neighborhood could hear, his eye-lights blazing a vivid, fiery orange.

Sans was rinsing his brother's shorts in the sink (figuring he'd wipe up the floor, and then toss both their clothing in the washing machine) when, with _impeccably_ awful timing, their doorbell rang.

* * *

To be honest, if it hadn't been for the other monsters always referring to "the skelebros" or "those skeletons", Carmen would have started to wonder if Papyrus actually had a brother, or just an imaginary friend.

After all, this was the sixth time she'd visited, and not once had she seen the slightest hint of this second skeleton, beyond the occasional misplaced sock or piece of trash.

Papyrus, while friendly and courteous, was rather obviously uncomfortable talking to her, when she wasn't lucky enough to visit at the same time as ambassador Frisk. She very much wanted to speak to his brother, and at her last visit, he had finally admitted with much reluctance that his sibling would be home the next evening – although he refused to give a specific time, and insisted that the other skeleton would likely be asleep no matter when she came.

She halfway expected to arrive to an empty house, or nobody except Papyrus again, but something about the house seemed different as she approached this time (thankfully, the puzzle gauntlet had not changed much from the day before).

A faint, rattling, tapping noise was emanating from the house, unlike anything she'd ever heard. It was an eerie, inhuman noise. She hesitated before ringing the doorbell, but ultimately decided she didn’t have much to lose. Her finger pressed the button; a loud _"ding!"_ rang out, and for a long moment nothing changed.

Then, someone inside the house started screaming.

From the pitch of the distinctive "NYO-HO-HO!" she had the strong suspicion it was Papyrus, although she'd never seen him anything but happy before.

Maybe she should go check on him?

As soon as the thought entered her mind, though, she was distracted as footsteps came toward the door, and a low, gravelly voice which was _definitely not_ Papyrus mumbled,  
"hey tori, i know i said saturday but could you come back tomorrow? paps ain't feeling too great; we kinda had a bit of a catastro- _pee_ , if you catch my _drip_?"

A beat's pause, and then the same voice.

"uh, tori? that is you, right?"

Carmen cleared her throat.

The door clicked open, and she was abruptly eye-to-eye with a monster that could only be the second skeleton brother.

Whatever she had expected – whatever image she had conjured in her mind’s eye – it was thoroughly, emphatically _not_ the monster in front of her.

Carmen was not a tall woman, but the petite, slightly thick boned skeleton in the doorway had to look _up_ slightly to meet her gaze.

He was small. Very small. Only slightly taller than a pre-adolescent human like ambassador Frisk, if a good bit heavier set (as far as that was even possible to judge in a literal skeleton). His features were less angular than Papyrus's, more rounded; with large eye sockets and a slightly crooked grin set on his face (and why was he smiling like that when his brother was crying so loudly? She wasn't sure she liked the implications).

He was shirtless, condensation dripping down his ribcage and the side of his skull – actual water, _not_ the magic monsters sometimes sweated, she could tell the difference, thanks – and wore only a baggy, somewhat ratty pair of basketball shorts that were clearly meant for someone several inches taller, some socks (also too loose), and a pair of floppy pink house slippers.

There were large damp patches along the hip and side of his pants, and he carried a heavy, musky scent which Carmen knew immediately that she had smelled before in other monster homes, but was unable to place.

He stared at her.

She stared back.

One of his eye sockets was large and dark; the other smoking with bright blue magic. They both stood a moment, wide eyed. The skeleton's grin went slightly brittle.

Without a word, he slammed the door in her face.

She heard the soft rumble of conversation from inside the house, and Papyrus stopped crying – the strange noise also lessening slightly.

She waited. Nothing changed.

She could hear no more conversation. After several minutes, she cautiously rang the doorbell again.

Papyrus started crying again, almost immediately. The door remained shut. Behind her, something scraped on the pavement.

She whirled around to see the same skeleton, now standing directly in her blind spot, slouching against the porch rail (how did he even get there? Nobody was that fast, not while being quiet…)

His eye was no longer glowing, both sockets lit by small white pricks of light. His clothing had also changed – he was no longer shirtless, wearing an oversized plain t-shirt and a different pair of grungy basketball shorts. His feet were still shoved in the same pink slippers. He also smelled considerably less strongly, though he still wore the same stiff, uneven grin.

He coughed. "sorry, you're, uh, not who i was expecting. heh."

Idly, Carmen wondered who he _had_ been expecting, that he felt comfortable answering the door half dressed and dirty. What she said was,

"Oh. It, um. Isn't Saturday, you know. It's Monday."

There was a pause. The skeleton blinked. He looked tired.

"oh."

He stood there a moment, hands shoved in his pockets.

"ehh, i'm no good with time. whole idea is just a clock full of shit if you ask me."

He scratched the side of his skull, knuckles making a quiet _“scrich”_ noise.

"look, i got no clue who you are, but you don't look like the mailman or our landlady, so…"

His eyelights flicked toward the house, then back to her.

"uh, sorry if papyrus invited you over, but i'm pretty sure he ain't feeling the whole ‘houseguests’ vibe right now. just call him in the morning or something."

She frowned in concern.

"Is everything alright?"

"yup." His expression remained completely unchanged, daring her to contradict him. Even when he spoke, his jaw barely moved – perhaps explaining his sloppy enunciation, but also lending an uncomfortable, slightly artificial quality to his smile.

Neither of them moved.

They could hear Papyrus cry out from inside, muffled by the door. "SAAA-ANS!"

Carmen glanced at the house, and when she looked back, the small skeleton was much, much closer, standing on the porch, hands shoved in his pockets. She jumped.

"my bro is waiting in there, i better get going."

When she didn’t respond, he glanced around.

“uh, look lady, i get that you wanna be helpful here, but what’s your favorite crayon color?”

“Um…” she didn’t understand the question, and was about to say so, when he continued.

“because if it’s anything other than ‘skeleton in the buff” you’re really not gonna be much use here.”

His grin widened, and she got the distinct impression he might be laughing at her expense.

“…and if it is, heh, no judgement, but i'm pretty sure you aren't my bro's type.”

Carmen cleared her throat.

“If you two are alright, I can just wait. But, um. I was actually hoping to speak with _you_ , not just your brother. My name is Carmen Jimenez, from the Department of Health and Monster Services.”

The monster stiffened at that, ever so slightly.

“look, if this is about my job, i got permits for it. i know my brother makes it sound shady, but i’m pretty he just isn’t hot on ‘dog stands…”

Oh. Carmen realized abruptly that she _had_ actually seen this monster around the community before, even if she hadn’t met him per se. The skeleton must be the same monster she saw occasionally manning a hot dog stand in higher density monster areas. She hadn’t recognized him simply because, until today, she had never encountered him in any position other than slumped over the counter snoring, most of his body enveloped in a faded blue hoodie. She’d never felt comfortable enough to try to wake him, and hadn’t even been sure of the vendor’s species until now. She _had_ seen other monsters wandering about with hot dogs that were definitely not made of meat, though, so she had to assume that he either wasn’t _always_ sleeping on the job, or that hungry monsters were much bolder than she was about rousing him to fix their food.

“Actually, I wasn’t here about your business. I’ve been trying to find a time to speak with you and your brother, but so far I’ve only been able to talk with Papyrus… He mentioned you might be home tonight. I, ah, was under the impression that he was going to let you know I’d be stopping by.”

“oh.”

They stood a moment. The skeleton’s fixed grin was slightly unsettling. He scratched his skull again.

“huh. i must’ve been catching some z’s when he mentioned it. it’s, uh, kinda a bad time right now though. if you gotta talk to me, i guess you could track me down for lunch tomorrow at grillby’s? we could sit down and _ketchup_ on things.”

* * *

Sans was beyond glad when the human finally left. Papyrus had _definitely not_ mentioned her, despite what he had said – or at least, not what she was there for. Because he usually noticed if Papyrus mentioned a new friend, and he definitely would have remembered him mentioning a strange human asking nosy questions, sleepy or not.

 _Not that anybody is a stranger to Papyrus for long,_ the traitorous voice in the back of his mind whispered. _That's kind of the problem, isn't it?_

It was true. The kind, trusting nature that Sans adored in his brother was also his single greatest fear. And never more so than now that they lived on the surface. Papyrus was always ready to make a new friend – he always saw the best in people, human or monster. And it could _kill him_ someday.

( _”It already has,”_ the awful voice whispers, and he remembers things he can’t possibly remember: events from a time that never was. Scenes from his nightmares; everyone running, hiding in safety, and only Papyrus – brave, loving Papyrus – waiting with open arms, for a dust covered child with a plastic knife.)

As usual, he pushes the unwelcome thoughts away, and focuses on the needs of the moment. Sans was good at that. Maybe not yesterday, or tomorrow, but right now, today? That he could handle.

So once he shut the door on their unwelcome visitor, he rattled loudly so Papyrus knew he hadn’t left, and did the quickest, most slapdash job of cleaning that he thought he could get away with without upsetting his brother; wiping up the puddle on the floor with their dirty clothes, and giving it and the rug a quick spray with the appropriate cleaner.

Then he shoved all their clothing in the washer with a pour of soap, and smacked the “on” button.

Soon, he was back in the room with Papyrus, climbing into the tub filled with piles of lemon scented bubbles.

They bathed quietly – the only noise the clattering of bones, and Sans rambling under his breath about nothing in particular, just because he knew Papyrus wanted to hear his voice.

Eventually, he tugged his brother out of the bath, and threw several of the oldest, softest towels he could find, rubbing firmly to polish any debris off of their bones. It had been months since they'd taken a bath together, and he was pretty sure Papyrus didn't even take his clothes off when he showered alone. So, as much as it went against his norm, some thoroughness was called for.

Papyrus was clearly still down in the dumps, not even commenting or complaining as Sans located an old, comfortable nightshirt in the back of Papyrus's closet, and settled it over the younger monster’s head. He only started to relax a bit, finally, when Sans wrapped his worn red scarf back around his shoulders.

“no gloves papy. they’re still in the wash with the rest of your stuff. think you’ll be ok until tomorrow?”

His brother gave a tiny nod, though he didn’t look certain.

“s'ok. i'll help you out, bro – i'm good at that, remember?”

Another nod, firmer.

As he led a disturbingly quiet Papyrus up to bed, he wondered if his brother was coming down with something – or, if he hadn't been, whether he would be after this.

Holding too much magic of any kind in his bones and soul always seemed to treat Papyrus far worse than it would a monster with less extreme levels of natural magic. Sans had no idea how long his brother had been holding it in before the scene this evening (which would have to be another topic in the Rough ConversationTM that they'd have to be having soon). Judging from the quantity and slight scent/luminescence of the urine, though, it had definitely been longer than advisable.

Probably significantly over a day, especially if Papyrus had been careful about his diet. So the chances that this was going to knock his magic out of whack enough to give him a day or two of flu or hangover type symptoms was pretty high.

They climbed into the race car bed together, pulling the blankets up to their shoulders – Sans tucking himself against his brother’s sternum as they read the book that Sans could have recited from memory, in his sleep.

He gently took Papyrus's fingers in his own around the second recitation, stopping the rubbing and picking on his metacarpals.

It wasn't another record-setting twenty-seven-stories-in-a-row night, like Sans halfway expected (Papyrus had been just out of stripes the night that happened, already taller than Sans by a good head. By the end of the night, Sans had been wondering how high it would rank on the “shitty childcare” scale if he gave his brother a slug of liquor in his hot cocoa to knock him out. He had been very, _very_ tired). This time, Papyrus was dozing by the end of the third repeat, and Sans gratefully followed.

It had been a very, _extremely_ long day. Even before Papyrus’s breakdown, the day had started with his hot dog cart getting caught between two excited Pyrope, burning out half his inventory.

Then he'd gone with Toriel to a commemorative event, to keep an unobtrusive eye on the kiddo while they gave their speech. After threatening two dumbasses with bodily harm, he’d gone to meet Alphys for their bi-weekly science meetup… only for their meeting to be crashed by a _loudly_ malfunctioning Mettaton near the end, which he felt too bad about leaving Alphys to deal with on her own.

Long story short, he felt long, long overdue for the nap he’d missed that afternoon. There was nothing he was looking forward to more than simply curling up with Papyrus, and nodding off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! Hope Sans isn't TOO ooc here... he's hard to write, even when he's supposed to be tired and off-kilter. This is the finished story - hope you all enjoy it! And let me know if there's any obvious formatting issues... I'm still getting used to Ao3. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is!  
> I hope someone got some enjoyment out of this, because I feel vaguely guilty about having even written it... XD
> 
> This story was originally part of a longer work which I have now scrapped, but I decided this section could stand alone.  
> There IS a chapter two - from Sans's POV - which I may post eventually, but it more heavily relates to the trashed story, so it'll need either additional explanation, or a lot more editing before I can post it. Let me know what you think!


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